Unlike a Virgin (29 page)

Blimey. It’s a bit like watching
Comic Relief when
you’ve been laughing away – ha, ha, ha – and then suddenly they show some footage of African babies dying of AIDS.

She tells me the sombre story and I listen, feeling sad. When she finishes we both sit for a moment, thinking about the lives of these poor women, but then I get this all-consuming craving for a roast chicken sandwich. I try to kick it from my mind, because the plight of trafficked Eastern Europeans is definitely more important than me wanting a sarnie, but it’s still languishing there, all granary bread, thick butter and a spot of pickle. It’s winking at me. Maybe Baby Bean needs protein, or maybe I’m just greedy. Where am I going to find roast chicken at half past ten on a Sunday night? I probably need to drive to the Edgware Road. There’s definitely a bonus to not drinking.

‘Penny.’ It’s Anton. He’s standing in front of me with a tower of beer glasses leaning against his shoulders.

‘You want to spend a penny?’ I ask.

‘No.’ He laughs. ‘Penny for your thoughts.’

‘Oh, sad to say, I was thinking of a roast chicken sandwich.’

‘If you stick around, that can be arranged.’ He smiles. ‘Pickle or mayonnaise?’

‘Oh,’ I say, dribble forming in my mouth. ‘Pickle, please.’

‘A very good idea,’ he says and waltzes off with the glasses.

‘Freddie has just asked me if I want to go upstairs and have a drink,’ Wendy whispers in my ear.

‘This is very good news,’ I whisper back.

‘I do not fancy Freddie. He is a wanker,’ she chants.

‘Oh, so did you say no, then.’

‘Course not. I’m going upstairs with him.’

I watch Wendy and Freddie take a bottle of wine upstairs. Then I spot two glasses on the floor, pick them up and take them to the bar. The bar staff, who had been quite lacklustre all evening, are now hurtling around trying to get cleared up and out the door as soon as possible. I pick up a wet cloth from the bar and use it to wipe down the sticky tables while Anton carries the karaoke equipment upstairs. He looks very strong and not at all old. When he comes downstairs again he says goodnight to the staff and locks the door behind them. He turns the majority of the lights off so the only illumination comes from a few bar lights and the street lamps outside. I suddenly feel very black and white movie, circa 1950. Or as black and white movie, circa 1950, as it’s possible to feel while wearing leggings.

‘Right, chicken and pickle. Follow me, Gracie Flowers. You’re on buttering duty.’

I trail him into the kitchen and wash my hands in the small sink behind the door.

‘A natural.’ He nods to me.

I don’t speak, I just smile contentedly as he opens and closes stainless-steel doors and fridges, assembling ingredients. He thickly slices a granary loaf and hands me a knife and butter.

‘As my gran used to say, I like to taste the butter,’ he instructs me.

‘Excellent, I love butter!’

He’s slicing the chicken now and holding me out a slice. I take it. Not in my mouth, though. I take it with my fingers. I must not throw myself at this man just because I want to spend the rest of my days with him.

‘I’m glad I’ve got you,’ he says after the sandwiches are made. My stomach flutters again, as if it’s full of daddy-longlegs. ‘I’m seducing you with chicken sandwiches,’ he says, smiling and licking a bit of pickle off his thumb. Poor Baby Bean, it must feel like there’s a birds of prey convention assembling in my tummy at the moment.

‘I just wanted to say that I am pretty much the happiest man alive knowing that we’ll be doing
Britain Sings
together. We’ll have fun.’

I nod and smile.

‘Shall we take these upstairs?’

I nod and smile again, then follow him through the bar and up the stairs. The karaoke is all set up, as it was when I was last here, but there’s no sign of Wendy and Freddie. They must be in his room.

We sit on the sofa and I take the first bite of my roast chicken sandwich.

‘Unbelievable,’ I exclaim. ‘Chicken sandwich heaven.’

‘Hmm,’ says Anton, biting into his.

I sit and eat half my sandwich, exploring the lounge with my eyes. It’s such a comfortable room. I cast my eyes over all the photos, then I inch myself forwards on the sofa to get a good vantage point. I might be here a little while as I’m going to do my usual bookshelf search and there are lots of books to canvass.

‘Gracie Flowers, what are you doing?’ Anton asks.

‘I’m just checking out your bookshelf.’

‘Are you the bookshelf police?’

‘Actually, I am. I’m chief of the … Oh. My. Goodness.’

‘What?’

‘Oh. My. Goodness.’

‘Grace?’

‘Is that … ? That’s not … ? It’s not
The Five Year Plan,
is it?’

‘Ah, yes. Guilty. That book made me buy this pub.’

‘No?’

‘Yes. I wanted my own gastro pub, so I bought the book, wrote my plan, followed the tasks and bought the pub.’

‘It made me buy my maisonette,’ I whisper.

I stare at him, willing him to say, ‘How strange, your plan and my plan brought us together. It must be fate.’ I wait but he doesn’t say anything. He just sits and eats his sandwich. People never say what you want them to say, do they?

I take the book from the shelf.

‘It’s a bit dog-eared.’

I hold the book with the cover away from me and walk towards Anton. I hold it out for him to see and he gives me a puzzled smile.

‘What?’

‘Read the cover.’

‘Why?
The Five Year Plan: Making the Most of Your Life.
’

‘No, but who’s it by?’

‘Camille Flowers.’

‘Keep reading.’

‘Camille Flowers, with Rosemary and Grace Flowers.’

‘Yes.’

‘Grace Flowers. But … you’re Grace Flowers. Gracie Flowers.’

‘Yes.’

‘You wrote this book?’

‘Yes, well, no. My dad wrote most of it. It was on his computer, and when we died, my mum and I put it together for the publishers.’

‘Grace Flowers. I’ve known you all this time and it never occurred to me.’

‘Why would it?’

‘Because you look like him.’

‘My mum always says that.’

‘I met your dad once.’

‘When?’

‘I was going to do a photo shoot with him for
Vanity Fair
.’

‘Oh, the
Vanity Fair
shoot.’

‘But obviously it didn’t happen.’

‘No.’

The
Vanity Fair
shoot didn’t happen because my father died a few weeks before it was supposed to take place.

‘Oh, Grace, I’m so sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’

‘I met him before, though. We took some test shots.’

‘Did you?’

‘Yes. I have them upstairs if you’d like to look at them.’

‘I’d love to.’

The amazing chicken sandwich is eclipsed. We leave our half-empty plates and walk up the next flight of stairs. I can hear Wendy and Freddie talking behind the closed door.

I follow Anton into his bedroom and breathe in its calm. He slides one of the huge fitted cupboards open. It’s deeper than I would have thought. One set of floor-to-ceiling shelves holds
vinyl records, another books and the other holds boxes, each labelled with a year on the side. He pulls down the box marked 2001: the year my dad died. He puts the box on the bed and deftly fingers through cardboard sleeves until he pulls one out. Then he puts the box on the floor and sits on the bed. I sit next to him.

‘We got on very well, your dad and I. I was in the States when he passed away and I felt as though I’d just made a new friend and then lost him straight away. I only found out after the funeral or I would have come back for it.’

‘I sang “Mr Bojangles” at his funeral,’ I say quietly. ‘It was his favourite song.’

Anton opens the cardboard sleeve to reveal a contact sheet – one large sheet of photographic paper with twenty-four miniature pictures on it – and there is my dad. My dad, ten years ago. My dad, as I remember him. He’s dancing in a room at Pineapple Studios, wearing his jeans and his Ramones T-shirt. Dad always made dancing look so free and easy. He’s spinning in some of the photos and leaping in others, and there are close-ups of his laughing face. The pictures capture him perfectly. Often, when I look at photos of Dad, they don’t look like the father I remember; he just looks like a dancer caught in a move. But these really show him; the man I love and remember. They’ve caught his charm and the twinkle in his eye.

I scroll down the tiny thumbnail pictures, wishing they were bigger.

‘We can enlarge whatever you want. These are yours now, Grace.’

‘I like them being here.’

I can’t take my eyes off the pictures I’m holding.

‘Whatever you prefer.’

‘He looks so alive,’ I whisper. My dad was so vibrant. He completely inhabited each moment and when you were with him you did, too. He gave me so many wonderful moments.

‘We had a great afternoon.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘Oh, it was quite deep.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, he started off wanting to know all about my photography and how it all started.’

I smile. That’s so my dad: he loved to get to the bottom of people, to find out what they did and what they loved. He loved people and their stories.

‘So I told him about my days on the road, and that led to quite a big discussion about music. He really knew his music. And then I told him I’d always taken photos, and one day I plucked up the courage to show them to some people who knew about photography. That paid off and led me on the route to becoming a photographer. We discussed how to live a true life you have to believe in every moment, and often that involves taking risks. You don’t meet many people where those conversations are possible. Conversations about life and how to live it well. He was a special man, Grace.’

I put the contact sheet carefully back in the envelope.

‘I’m so glad you met him,’ I say as I hand it back to him.

‘Shall we go downstairs and sing?’ Anton says, standing up. ‘It’s just the two of us.’

I stand up, too, but I shake my head, then I look into Anton’s eyes and start to unbutton my shirt. My hands are
shaky. I’ve never done this before and I don’t want him to think I’m a slapper. I just want him to know that I am all his. Not just for now, but for always, if he wants. I let my shirt fall to the floor behind me. It’s so quiet. It feels as though the whole of London is holding its breath for me. I’m not sure what to do now. I’m wearing leggings. They should come off next, but that will definitely look ungainly. Perhaps I should undo his shirt? I’m so longing to touch his chest, his flesh. Or should I take off my bra? I keep my eyes fixed on his, and take another step towards him. I wonder whether I should undo the buttons on his shirt. I start to reach up towards his top button, but change my mind and take hold of his hand instead and steer him towards the bed. He lets me lead him and sits down, placing the envelope of photographs behind him on the bed. My breathing is very shallow. I don’t know where to start with this man, but I want it to be perfect. I am such a short arse that with him sitting and me standing our faces are almost level. Our eyes are still locked when I lean towards him and kiss him softly on the mouth. I close my eyes and feel my whole body literally aching to press against his. His rough chin brushes against mine. I put my hand gently to his cheek and feel his hands, big and strong on my shoulders. I am adrift. Softly his hands push me away from him.

‘Grace, this isn’t a good idea.’

It takes a moment for his words to register. It certainly feels like a good idea to me. He reaches to the floor, picks up my shirt and holds it out for me.

‘I’m a lot older than you are.’

‘George Clooney is about your age,’ I say, forever clearing up any doubts anyone might have about whether or not I’m a complete imbecile.

He chuckles sadly. I can’t laugh or even smile.

‘My whole body is on fire for you,’ I whisper, because it’s true.

I wrap my shirt around me and walk to the door.

‘Stay, please, Grace, I just don’t think it would be right to—’

‘I have to go.’

‘I’ll see you out.’

He follows me out of the room and lets me out of his pub, but I don’t look at him.

‘Oh, BB, what’s Granny in London been buying now?’ I shriek as soon as I step into the hall. ‘Jeez.’

BB doesn’t answer and neither does mother. That’s because mother’s on her new treadmill. I can tell by the pounding, whirring sounds coming from what used to be the dining room. She’s paid off all her debts and has decided to turn it into a gym. So far we have a treadmill, a cross trainer and an exercise ball in there, and this huge package appears to be a bench press. It’s enough to make you tired.